


Maidenhead

by KoreArabin



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Shhhh. I understand completely. You love me, and desire nothing more than to offer me your male maidenhead. But you are frightened, yes, yes, I understand. A Prince's - no, a King's - prowess and virility in such matters must be quite daunting for you, as must the thought of the royal manhood - my sceptre - no less.</p><p>But calm yourself, good sir knight. Gisborne. I am accustomed to being offered such - gifts - by those that love me, and I shall be gentle with you. Well, I shall not be too rough."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He has heard it said that the night is always darkest before the dawn, but Gisborne has never been a man to give idle sayings any great thought. This morning, though, having been dragged forcibly from his bed in the hazy, feverish aftermath of yet another nightmare, the saying comes back to him as he clings desperately to the steed they’ve forced him on to, shivering as they gallop through the dank dawn mist.

He has enough wits about him to see that they are Prince John’s men, but what the Prince might want with him at such an hour, and in such a violent and unexpected manner, he cannot guess.

Arriving at the Prince’s camp, Gisborne is dragged from his horse and manhandled through to what he assumes, from its size and its richly hung, perfumed, interior, to be the Prince’s tent. Thrown to the floor, he freezes and waits on his knees, determined to ascertain why he has been brought here before incriminating himself by saying or doing the wrong thing.

“Do you love me, Gisborne?” The Prince’s voice, soft and feminine as it is, makes him start, and he realises that Prince John is standing back in the shadows behind the intricately carved wooden screen which separates the public area of the tent, where the Prince receives visitors, from the more private area beyond. 

“Yes, Sire.” What else can he say?

Prince John steps out from behind the screen and seats himself on the large, elaborately upholstered chair standing before the screen. Adopting an expression of puzzlement and hurt, he speaks, softly and sadly. 

“I’m so pleased to hear it because I don’t think the Sheriff loves his prince. No, I don’t think he does at all. My time is almost here, Gisborne.”

Gisborne, still on his knees, raises his head slightly, but keeps his eyes down, focussing on the Prince’s feet as he continues.

"You know my father, Henry, God rest his soul, wanted me to be King, not my brother Richard. Me... _King_. That was his wish. And I will be. Soon. My father taught me to surround myself with only those most loyal, with only those who love me.”

Gisborne dares to raise his head a little more, but still keeps his eyes down, as Prince John leans forward.

“You’d make a fine sheriff, Gisborne. I’m confident in that. Does it please you that I have such confidence in you?”

Gisborne’s eyes widen slightly. Well, this is unexpected. “Yes Sire.”

The Prince sits back and his tone becomes harsher. 

“Hmmm... Robin Hood isn’t dead. I told _you_ , I told the _Sheriff_ , I wanted Robin Hood dead. His blood is a gift I covet and yet no-one gives it me. If the Sheriff loved Prince John, he would give it me. And yet I do not have it; ergo, he doesn’t love me. Well, I _will_ have blood.”

Gisborne’s heart lurches and looks again at the ground, his entrails turning to ice. 

_Blood? The Prince will have his blood. He has failed. The narcissistic, arrogant, sadistic Prince was only toying with him, with his talk of being Sheriff. He is going to die._

“The Sheriff ’s blood.”

Gisborne swallows down his panic and nausea, and looks up. Prince John leans forward, his face close enough that Gisborne can feel his breath on his cheek, his gaze locked with Gisborne’s.

“You will kill the Sheriff for me, Gisborne, discreetly. Only the two of us will know. A private secret we can share.”

Gisborne swallows and breathes rapidly as the Prince lays a hand softly on either side of his head, cupping his face and holding him close.

“And you will do this for me, Gisborne... Because you love me.” 

His voice is a whisper. “Yes, Sire. Because I love you.”

The Prince sits back, abruptly, crossing his legs, his mood changing instantly from the emotion-charged whispers of a moment ago to a mildly humourous disinterest in the man still kneeling before him.

“And how else shall you show me you love me, Gisborne, hmmm? You shall give me the Sheriff’s blood, and of course Hood’s, but what else? What will you give me?”

Gisborne thinks frantically. What on earth else is there that he can give this maniac?

“Perhaps you could give me something that you have never given another man?"

Gisborne is still flailing, mentally. "Sire?"

Prince John smiles his most winsomely attractive smile, fixing Gisborne with a smouldering come hither gaze from under his pale, auburn lashes. The effect is no doubt supposed to be unbearably seductive and enticing, but strikes Gisborne more as being ogled by a fox with a wall eye and galloping mange. However, the realisation of what the Prince may be hinting at does at least at last dawn upon him.

"What can I give to you, Sire, that I have not given another man?"

The laugh is high and silvery, accompanied by a coquettish turn of the head. "Why, Gisborne, _yourself_ , naturally. Of course you will have had women, a big, strong, man like you, and women are all very well, but I have not yet encountered a man who has not wished to give me something more of himself. Something very precious indeed."

Gisborne swallows, his heart sinking. And so it again comes to this. The Prince wants to fuck him, but not just to fuck him, to dress it up in some sort of perverse gift of - what? His anal virginity?

Licking his lips lightly, but deliberately, he looks up shyly at the Prince, praying to any damned god up there that he has accurately gauged the Prince's vanity and narcissicism, and understood him correctly. 

"Sire? How could any man not wish to offer you more of himself... but, but, Sire, I...."

Taking Gisborne's face again in his hands, this time the Prince rubs the tips of his thumbs over his lips, pressing them open, and smearing Gisborne's own saliva over his mouth.

"Shhhh. I understand completely. You love me, and desire nothing more than to offer me your male maidenhead. But you are frightened, yes, yes, I understand. A Prince's - no, a _King's_ \- prowess and virility in such matters must be quite daunting for you, as must the thought of the royal manhood - my _sceptre_ \- no less.

But calm yourself, good sir knight. Gisborne. I am accustomed to being offered such - gifts - by those that love me, and I shall be gentle with you. Well, I shall not be too rough."

Grasping a handful of Gisborne's hair in his fist as he stands over him, he presses his face to the straining fabric of his crotch.

"It will make things a little easier for you if I allow you to prepare me, first, so, come with me, dear Gisborne, to my bedchamber, and ready yourself."


	2. Chapter 2

Reluctantly, Gisborne follows the Prince into the murkier depths of the tent. The air is thick here, cloying with heat and perfume, which catches in Gisborne’s throat. Before them is a bed or, more accurately, a huge raised dais, covered with rich silk throws, furs, and opulently decorated cushions. The posts, at each of the four corners of the bed, are similarly hung with thick, sumptuous curtains, tied back with silken, tasselled ropes. 

The Prince lies back on the bed, settling himself against a pile of cushions, and gestures at Gisborne. 

“Well, what are you waiting for? You wish to give yourself to me. So, show me what you are offering.”

Gisborne begins to strip, efficiently and methodically, but is stopped in his tracks by the Prince.

“What are you _doing_ , Gisborne? You are _offering_ yourself to me, are you not? So - _offer_ yourself – make yourself alluring to me.”

Gisborne, the rough, brooding, knight is genuinely lost. “Sire? I don’t…. I don’t understand?”

Prince John sighs theatrically and pouts.

“Must I _tell_ you how to _offer_ yourself to me, Gisborne? I begin to think that you do not love me after all, if you cannot make yourself desirable to me.”

Gisborne swallows, his heart sinking yet again, more than he would have thought possible, but he will weather this humiliation. What other choice does he have?

Slowly, he runs his fingers over the fabric of his shirt, down over his stomach, and brushes at the waist of his leather breeches, issuing a low, breathy, moan as his fingers skim the top of his crotch lacings.

“Better, oh, _much_ better, Gisborne. Show your Prince how much you desire him.”

Gisborne licks his lips before sucking on his fingertips and rubbing them over his chest, ensuring that the fabric of his shirt is darkened and thoroughly soaked with saliva where it touches his nipples. Moaning again, he pinches at the sensitive flesh, and rolls the hardening nubs between his fingertips, before slowly sliding the shirt up and over his head.

He closes his eyes as he runs his hands down his muscled torso and over his hips, bringing his fingertips again to tease at the lacings of his breeches, sighing softly but sensuously.

“Surely you should open your eyes, Gisborne. Do you not wish to look at the object of your desire?”

The Prince is sprawled back on the cushions, slowly rubbing the front of his breeches, his expression clouded with desire and possessiveness. Desire for Gisborne, certainly, but there is something else in the Prince’s dark, hooded, eyes; a twisted, narcissistic, need to see himself, and the desire Gisborne has for him, reflected back again in Gisborne’s gaze. 

It is that which excites this Prince, Gisborne at last realises – not the simple act of dominating another, although that is clearly immensely enjoyable to him – but the sight of another’s desire for him, and the knowledge of that person's willingness to abase himself, in his need to show the Prince how much he is desired.

Gazing sultrily at the Prince from under his lashes, and biting deliberately at his bottom lip, Gisborne again toys with his nipples, pinching them hard until they are swollen and red, before trailing the fingers of one hand down over his stomach and snaking them into his breeches, as he moans suggestively and sways his hips slightly from side to side. He has never felt more humiliated.

Stroking his cock inside the breeches, he cups his balls with his other hand through the leather, and squeezes, letting out another breathy groan before beginning slowly to untie the lacings. Teasingly, he pushes the breeches down, inch by inch, until the tip of his cock is just visible, then licks his fingers again before smearing his saliva over the head of his penis.

Prince John’s voice is hoarse and urgent. “Take them off. Come here.”

Gisborne steps out of the breeches as gracefully as he can, then climbs on to the bed, slinking up to the Prince on all fours, head low so that he can continue to gaze upwards at him from below his lashes, for all the world a large, powerful, exotic beast – a panther – with his muscled body, black, silken hair, and striking eyes.

The Prince’s cock is clearly erect beneath the fabric of his breeches, a dark wet spot spreading from the tip as he palms himself. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, and his mouth is slack and wet. Gisborne’s stomach twists again in revulsion and humiliation as Prince John spreads his legs invitingly.

“Come then, Gisborne. Show me how much you love me.”


	3. Chapter 3

Why this encounter should be so utterly abhorrent to him, given the times he has been used and humiliated by the Sheriff, Gisborne cannot explain. For all his self-serving scheming, diving and ducking, wheeling and dealing, and his casual disregard for everyone else, Vaisey is at least bluntly direct in his sexual appetites. He will dominate, and hurt, and humiliate, but it is always clear that this is for Vaisey's satisfaction and his alone, and if Gisborne is left choking, or sore, or bleeding, and in any of those conditions _unsatisfied_ , Vaisey does not care, and does not even bother to try to dress it up in any other way. 

But this Prince demands that one be utterly complicit in one's rape and degradation. He demands that the abused supplicate the abuser, that they should beg for their defilement, as if there was nothing else in the world that they desired more. Gisborne cannot bear to think of the show of lust and seduction he has already performed to feed this monster's narcissism, and he has not yet even had to endure the man's hands upon him.

The Prince purses his lips in that wet, unpleasant way he has, and twists his fist in Gisborne's hair, forcing his face down to the crotch of his breeches, and rubbing his nose over the wet patch there. 

"Savour that scent, Gisborne. It is the essence of regal authority, of my divine right to rule, both here in the temporal world, and in the hereafter. You, Gisborne, are truly honoured. You shall taste and imbibe the nectar of a King."

Pulling Gisborne up so hard that he hisses in pain, the Prince positions his mouth over the spreading stain, and Gisborne licks obediently. The Prince tips his head back, closing his eyes and sighing in pleasure.

"Oh, yes, Gisborne, good boy, lick it, taste it, _savour_ it."

Gisborne licks obediently, up and down the outline of the shaft, mouthing and sucking at the head, using his fingers to caress the bulge of the Prince's testicles.

"Unlace me, Gisborne, and you shall have your prize."

The Prince's cock springs free, swollen, red and weeping from the tip. Hardly a _sceptre_ , Gisborne thinks wryly, but he gets back to sucking and licking as Prince John lies back and sighs, occasionally giving Gisborne's hair a tug, to guide him to where he next wishes to be stimulated.

For all the Prince's sighing, it does not appear that he is likely to be anywhere near climaxing any time soon. Gisborne resigns himself to a great deal of work, with only a sore tongue and aching jaw to show for it, when the Prince rouses himself from his near prone position.

"Up, Gisborne. Turn around, spread your legs and present yourself to me. I have a desire to fuck your arse."


	4. Chapter 4

Slowly, reluctantly, Gisborne obeys, turning around so that his backside is facing Prince John, and waits, on all fours.

"No, _present_ yourself, Gisborne."

The Prince leans over Gisborne and presses down hard on the back of his neck, forcing his head down to the silken bedcover. Gisborne bends his arms to accommodate the position, resting his forearms beside his head. He hears rustling behind him, as Prince John shrugs off his breeches, and then there is the rather unpleasant sensation of a wet, semi-erect cock slapping at the crease of his arse.

For all his talk of regal prowess and virility, it seems the Prince is not quite up to the task. Gisborne thinks furiously, knowing only too well that any failure of the princely potency is likely to rebound quite resoundingly upon his own head.

"Sire. My _King_ , surely I am too humble, too far beneath you for you to waste anything of your Kingly attention on a mere knight. My _King_."

_Hmmm. Possibly laying it on a bit thick, there, Gisborne, but that's better than finding yourself at the wrong end of the hangman's noose for not getting the Royal Standard to rise, isn't it?_

"Say that again."

"Sire?"

"The K word, Gisborne. Say it. Again. And again."

"My King. My _King_."

Gisborne would not have thought it possible that a man's waning erection could be so fortified by the utterance of one little word but, in Prince John's case, he is proved wrong. As Gisborne moans the regal title, the Prince's sceptre is, thankfully, restored to full majesty, and soon prodding insistently at Gisborne's dry, tight, entrance.

"You must prepare yourself, quickly, Gisborne. Your King is ready to take you, and shall not be chafed by a dry, unprepared, passage, although he knows that you will, of course, be tight. _Virginal_. Unused to the caresses of men.

Well, your King will of course use you kindly. So, _prepare_ yourself, sirrah."

Gisborne looks around him, wildly. There - on the cabinet beside the bed - is a pot of some sort of salve. The Prince does not have to know that Gisborne has endured _a lot_ of arse fucking, at the hands of past knights, Lords, and anyone who could help him in his search for some position or preferment in life, given that his lands were taken from him so long ago.

Grabbing at the pot, Gisborne quickly pulls the string-fastened cloth cover aside, scoops up a generous double fingerful of the salve and reaches between his legs to smear it over his arsehole, before gritting his teeth as he thrusts a greasy finger deep inside himself.

The Prince, despite his instruction to Gisborne to prepare himself, is eager to take the handsome knight spread open so wantonly before him. Slapping Gisborne's salve-greased hand aside, he lines the tip of his cock up with Gisborne's tight pucker and forces himself into him.

Gisborne bites the inside of his cheek, hard, to prevent himself crying out at the far-too-fast, _painful_ intrusion. Prince John has sheathed himself to the hilt inside him, and he feels as if he's been punched in the guts, but from the inside out.

Prince John leans forward, and whispers breathily in to Gisborne's ear.

"And now, you shall moan for me. Tell me how much you need your King inside you. And bleed the blood of your virgin entrance once I have tupped you. Yes, Gisborne. You are receiving a great honour, and you shall experience every single second of it, in vivid detail, I swear."


	5. Chapter 5

Gisborne moans, just as the Prince has instructed, but it is more a stifled groan of pain than a moan of pleasure.

"Sire, it hurts. Please, Sire."

"Ssssh, Gisborne. I am not going to stop. So, relax. Relax and enjoy it."

Gisborne does his best, but enjoyment is the very last thing on his mind. Although the Prince's cock is not large by any standard, the penetration is too much, too fast, and he has not the slightest desire for the man inside him, or even the tiniest flicker of arousal. He grits his teeth, before forcing his jaw to unclench, and wills himself to relax. This is happening, and it will hurt, but he cannot stop it and so he must make it as bearable for himself as possible.

"Moan for me, Gisborne. Tell your _King_ how much you love him."

Prince John begins to fuck him in earnest; violent, brutal, painful, thrusts and Gisborne cannot stifle his groans of pain. The Prince smiles blissfully against the back of his neck, his vanity and pride in the prowess of his _sceptre_ satisfied.

"Yes, oh _yes_ , Gisborne, moan. Is this hurting you?" The Prince's eyes are wide and eager, mouth slightly open in anticipation. "I love it when they moan for me, and beg. And cry."

Gisborne bites down on the inside of his forearm. The penetration is becoming easier to bear, but it is still too much, too fast.

"I like it when it hurts, Gisborne. I can give those who love me something to remember me by. A Prince - no, a _King_ \- does not grace just _anyone_ with his attentions. The pain in your flesh shall be my mark upon you, a sweet reminder of your sweet Prince's love. Now, Gisborne, beg me for your release." 

The Prince begins to move again, his thrusts now slow and deep, marked by the wet, filthy sound of the lubrication in Gisborne's arse, and skin hitting skin. As the Prince's thrusts become quicker and harder, Gisborne is pushed further down the bed, until his head is almost hanging off of the end. He braces himself on his forearms, grunting and moaning as his inner walls are stuffed and stretched, then moans more loudly and, surprisingly, in pleasure as the Prince changes angle and begins to hit his prostate on each thrust. 

"Oh, yes, like that, Gisborne. Moan; like that. Beg for me."

Whilst a small part of him silently damns his treacherous body for responding so readily, the larger part embraces the pleasure for what it is, and Gisborne does not have to play act as he moans and begs.

"More, Sire, please. Harder, my King. Fill me up. Fuck me hard, Sire, please!"

Gisborne squirms and writhes, pushing back against the Prince's thrusts, lost in sensation as the Prince rams into him.

"Touch yourself. You are to climax whilst I'm inside you. That's it. Good boy."

Gisborne takes his now stiff and dripping cock in hand and pumps it, hard and fast, shouting out his release as his orgasm crashes over him. He comes with the Prince rammed deep inside him, his treacherous body clamping down hard around the cock he's impaled on, followed soon afterwards by the Prince, who floods his insides with burning, hot, semen. 

His head sinks on to his forearms as he pants, sore and spent, the Prince's cock still buried inside him to the hilt, and he groans as Prince John pulls out gingerly, his cock presumably a little sore, too, after the reaming he's given Gisborne.

The Prince settles back against the cushions again, grabbing a goblet of wine from the table adjoining the bed, and drinking deeply before yawning widely.

"Passable, Gisborne, but hardly the service of a truly devoted subject. Your _sister_ , in contrast, is so _very_ attentive to the Royal person, I begin to wonder if perhaps I should look elsewhere for my sheriff?"

Gisborne rouses himself from his pain and fatigue, at once worried and alert.

"No, Sire - my _King_. Lack of experience is all, I swear, Sire."

The Prince shrugs and takes another swallow of wine. "Yes, yes, that could explain it, I concede. This time. But, Gisborne, have a care. When I next desire a gift I covet, I expect you to give it me. And I shall, over the coming weeks, desire it very much, and _you will give it me_ , Gisborne."

Gisborne hopes that his blanching at the Prince's words is not too visible. More of this? Dear God, no.

"But first, clear up your mess from my bed, Gisborne."

As Gisborne makes to wipe up his stickily drying spend from the bedcovers, he curses himself for not being more quickly astute.

"Not like _that_ , Gisborne. You shall learn. You use your _mouth_."


End file.
